Page 15 of I Would Stay Forever
“Because…” I faltered. I didn’t have a reason to be here other than that the guidance counselor had placed me in it randomly because course registration happened right after my dad left. But if I told the guidance counselor I wanted to switch my classes around, she would undoubtedly ask why I’d let her choose them in the first place, and I couldn’t even talk about Dad with Dean, so explaining it to her was out of the question.
Any other excuse that I could have come up with was cut off by the P.A. system crackling to life. “Please rise for the national anthem.”
I got to my feet, but kept the death grip I had on the back of the chair, not giving Dean the chance to pull it back toward himself. He slipped his hand onto the back of it as well, making it clear that he wasn’t giving up the fight. The chatter of the room died down as O Canada began playing from the speakers. It wasn’t a particularly long song, but it felt never-ending as Dean and I practically stared each other down.
It was obvious that neither of us would be switching out of the class, but I didn’t understand why he had to sit next to me. There were still a couple of open spots around the room and he could pick any of them—why had he chosenhere? He wouldn’t have fought this hard if it was just because this seat was the firstone he saw when he walked in. He must have sought me out. For whatever reason, Dean Graham wasn’t avoiding me the way I was avoiding him, and I didn’t understand why. I couldn’t think of a single reason why he would want to keep spending time with his best friend’s little sister, especially after having to tell me my dad was having an affair. Why didn’t he just want to stay as far away from me as possible?
When the final notes came to an end, I dropped back in my seat but didn’t let go of the other chair, debating if there was some way I could convince him to take the one other empty seat in the room. I could move onto the chair, but I had a feeling then he would just come around and take mine instead. I thought maybe I should suggest that sitting next to the pretty girl in the front row would be a good way to ask her out, but then another girl walked in late and took the seat.
I was so distracted by my own thoughts that I missed most of the morning announcements, including the time and location of the volleyball team tryouts this week. I’d have to ask Zoey about it later.
When the announcements finally ended, Mr. Thompson walked into the classroom and said, “Everybody, please take your seats.” He walked straight to the board and started writing on it, so I wasn’t even sure if he noticed that Dean was still standing or if it was his general morning statement.
Dean raised his eyebrows at me, clearly waiting for me to let go of the chair and let him sit. Even though I knew that he had every right to sit there, and that there was nothing I could do to stop him, I stubbornly refused to do so.
It took Mr. Thompson a moment to notice us once he turned around and started wiping the chalk off his hands. He paused, his brows furrowing in confusion as he looked at Dean.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Just a small matter of where I should be sitting,” Dean said politely. “This is the only seat left in the room, but it seems to be spoken for.”
I hadn’t noticed the other empty seat get taken but I guess somebody else had snuck in during announcements when I was distracted. I wanted to snap at Dean that it hadn’t been the only seat left when he walked in but with everyone’s eyes on us, I couldn’t act like that.
Mr. Thompson picked up the class list and ran his eyes over it quickly, then looked over the room, counting under his breath.
“Everyone who’s registered for the class is here,” Mr. Thompson said. “That seat is for you, Mr…”
“Graham, sir. Dean Graham.” Dean kept his eyes on Mr. Thompson as he yanked the chair back toward himself. I finally released my grip on it, knowing that I couldn’t keep fighting him on it now. It would sound petty to anybody else that I didn’t want him sitting next to me and I certainly wouldn’t be getting into the whole history of why I didn’t want him here. All I wanted from this year was to keep my head low, graduate, and get out of here. Drawing attention to my family issues would not help with that.
I refused to look at Dean as he sat down at the desk and started pulling out his school materials from his bag. Mr. Thompson, satisfied that the issue had been resolved, started the lesson, but I barely heard a word. All I could think about was Dean.
Dean sitting next to me.
Dean pushing his notebook my way like he was passing me a note.
Me refusing to look at Dean’s note because I would not let him think that we were becoming friends.
Maybe I could go to the guidance office today and come up with some fake sob story about why I couldn’t be in this class.Maybe I could say that I was a pacifist and didn’t want to learn about violence, or that I wanted to have my free period in the morning instead of the afternoon. But messing with my schedule would probably move around my other classes, and what if I accidentally ended up in another one—or more—with Dean? I couldn’t exactly go to my guidance counselor and tell her to make sure my schedule was completely different from a random boy’s.
Dean shoved the notebook harder at me, the spiral binding hitting me in the arm. I glared at him but he just pointed at it. I dropped my gaze and read the note scribbled at the top of the page, in the same handwriting as the note I’d gotten in my locker yesterday.
Meet me after school. I just want to talk.
I picked up my pen—a glittery purple one that I used for headers in my notebook—and wrote a simple answer.
No.
ten
I wokeup with a rock on my chest. At least that’s what it felt like. It took a second for my eyes to adjust enough that I could see my bedroom—mint green duvet, fairy lights strung up along the ceiling, photos sticky tacked to the wall beside my bed.
I propped myself on my elbows, taking in deep, gasping breaths, trying to get some air into my lungs. Trying to alleviate the pressure in my chest that seemed to have been there since July 28. My fingers dug into the soft fabric of my duvet, desperate for something to hold on to as my world began to spin. It wasn’t any help, though. There was only one thing that could ever help.
I need to get out of here.
I fell out of the bed more than stepped out of it, my knees scraping against the rug, but I was back on my feet in seconds. I didn’t waste time worrying about what I was wearing, if I had my phone, or anything else I would have cared about at any other moment. I sprinted down the stairs, pulled on the first shoes I could find, and stumbled my way outside.
The first time the panic hit was the day after we’d gotten home from staying with the Graham’s. That time, I didn’t have to go far before it subsided–by the time I reached the end ofour street, I was breathing easier and I’d slowed to a walk, only lapping the block before returning home. The next time it happened, I had to run three blocks and I didn’t slow to a walk at all. Every time since then, the run had lasted longer. The need to get far away took too long to subside. I would run and run and run until I wasn’t sure whether it was the panic or the exercise that made it hard to breathe. I would run until my legs burned and there was a stitch in my side and I felt like I must have been in another city or how long I’d been going for.
